Wren
by kkolmakov
Summary: The other side of the same old story *No Infringement Intended* A series of Wren-centered one-shots. All that you wanted to ask about her and more
1. Her Magic

HER MAGIC

The sword sinks into the King's abdomen, and you scream. You push blade in your hands deeper into the flesh of an Orc in front of you and then jerk it back with a squelching sound. "Thorin!" You run, your boots sinking into the foul smelling, stale swamp water. He is still standing, the Orc in front of him snarling. You can see a Dwarven warrior two steps from the King twirl and bury his wide Dwarven sword into the neck of the King's assailant.

Thorin supports himself on the Orcrist, but then his legs give in and he is sinking into the mud. You grab his upper body, but he is too heavy, his brigandine and leather cloak quickly soaking the cold water, wide body slumping. "Thorin!" He turns his face to you and for a second his eyes are warm. "Kurdu..." His lashes flutter closed. You both sag, your arms wrapped around him. You cannot see the combat around you, cannot hear the cries and growls, your eyes on the beloved face. "Dwalin! Dwalin! I need you, now!" You feel presence of the tattooed warrior but you cannot tear your eyes from the King's face. "Pull him out, I need you to get him out of the water!"

Dwalin picks up the King and supports him under one arm. You three stumble on a higher ground, and you pull off your helmet and breast plate. "Barazninh, there are archers!" "I cannot do anything in my armour!" You jerk the Kings buckle and open up the velvet vest. The Orc sword went under the lower hem of the brigandine that apparently shifted in the fight, and the wide jagged laceration is gaping in his side.

You hike up your dress and tear off a piece from your undertunic. You press it into the wound. "Dwalin, I have nothing! The sack sank!" You are panicking, the King's face is pale, he is losing a lot of blood. "And your magic?" "It does not work this way!"

The King starts coughing, bloodied foam on his lips, and you are shaking. The cold part of your mind professionally evaluates the damage. Severed tissues and internal organs, deep penetration of the wound, the position of the blade upon entering. He won't survive. Either his heart will stop in a few seconds from cold and trauma, or he will bleed out in a course of minutes.

"Thorin, Thorin..." His upper body is on your lap, you are frantically pressing your hands to the sides of his face. Dwalin is frozen a foot away from you, and you are suddenly furious. "Don't you dare, don't you dare leaving me now!" You are yelling and shake Thorin's shoulders. "How can you!... What am I without you?!.."

You feel the first silent sobs shaking your body. You press your fingers to the side of his throat, the pulse is almost impalpable. What is the use in all your skill and magic if you cannot save the only person who matters to you in this world?

You scream, unintelligent violent animalistic scream, and the King jerks. For a second his eyes open, and he seems to see you. "Thorin..." But the lashes flutter again, and his face is cold and unmoving. You gasp and press your lips to his.

The first golden sparkles flicker under your palms, and you lift your head. A soft, never before seen glow warms up your palms, and you press them to the wound. With some strange sense of serenity you can feel the tissues inside the wounded body of the King to pull back together, the torn walls of the organs fusing back, and the cut is closing in front of your eyes. The blood is still seeping out of it but you see the King to suddenly take a spasmodic deep breath, and his body jerks. You whisper his name and lose consciousness.

Never before and never again have you been able to use your magic to heal. The strange gift of golden glow that a mysterious man from over the seas, with slanted green eyes and flaming hair, passed to your grandmother's child born of his forbidden love, has never been more than a nuisance, capable of only shaking goblets on a table and making your curls bounce. Once before it has sprang to life, snaking at your feet like the fiery thongs of Balrog's whip, seemingly stinging and slicing your enemies, guiding your hand in firm and deadly thrusts, in a violent battle for the life and the love of the King Under the Mountain.

Since the day on the swamps only the smallest of sparkles would crackle around your copper locks, when heated in passion or anger you would feel the tickling of your magic. Since that day the presence of your gift would manifest in deeper understanding of hidden thoughts of men and prophetic dreams, in inquisitiveness and skillful healing, in seemingly being able to converse with unborn babes, in calming hysterical women and successfully conducting precarious negotiations. But never again would you be able to heal or wound the flesh. That is the price that you paid readily and with gratitude for the life of the man who forever stands in the center of your world.

You return to your senses by the end of the day. The King's wound gets infected, and you spend three days on the swamps, collecting herbs and tending to his burning body. He thrashed and feverishly murmurs in Khuzdul for three days and four nights, after which in the cold bleak morning he opens his eyes, and you see recognition in the blue irises. Dwalin and other surviving warriors carry him back to Erebor on hastily made stretchers.

He is put in your bed and you can finally close your eyes. You are sleeping sitting on a chair, clenching his hands on the covers. In the night Balin comes into the chambers and moves you on the bed. You wake up in the morning pressed into the King's healthy side. His breathing is even, and colour seems to be returning to his cheeks. You are gazing at the beloved face and send your prayers to all Maiar, as well as to the unknown deities that your nameless grandfather was worshiping. Whatever Gods brought him to the shores of Enedwaith and tied his heart to your grandmother's, you will forever praise them. They gave you back your life and your soul. You close your eyes and curl into the warm body of Thorin Oakenshield. The strong, even beating of his heart is the only gift you need in this life.


	2. Her Looks

HER LOOKS

You are staring at yourself in a tall polished silver mirror. Your eyes are roaming your whole body, in a desperate search for something to be pleased with, but no avail. Every little detail is calling for pity. The height of a thirteen year old, and not the healthiest one; in Gondor, probably even an eleven year old. No bosom to heave and alluring peek from a cut of dress, two little peaks hardly noticeable under the heavy velvet of the dress.

Torso narrow, waist minuscule, a slight curve of hips hardly there. Bony collarbones, thin arms, tiny hands. At least the neck is long and slender. You lift your chin and try to give yourself a regal look. You sigh, how can that entice a man, even more so a Dwarf? No meat, no sturdiness, no firmness, no roundness. For Rohan you were too small, at least in Erebor you are not too tall; in Bree too scrawny, in Gondor too pale. To think of it, anywhere you traveled you are seen as too short, too gaunt and too pallid.

Your skin is the worst of your flaws. White, almost translucent, blush as if waiting around a corner to spring at any point of time, in furious heady heat on your cheekbones, which could also use some roundness. Everything is angular, perpetually lifted corners of your lips, the outline of the upper lip too curved, bottom lip too wide, too full, too red, no chance to ever be compared to rose petals there. No cheeks whatsoever, no hope for a rosy fullness there. And the cursed freckles! Angry, orange, peppering the nose and the cheekbones! If you had any vanity at all, you would have tried to bleach them out, but you have been quite aware of your audacious unattractiveness from so early, so you would not even bother. One cannot approve such calamity.

You sigh again. At least the hair is tolerable, voluminous, deep copper colour, but the villainous curls! Stubbornly escaping any and every do, braids slick, pins and combs constantly disappearing, lost and found all over the Erebor Halls. Little coils treacherously breaking away even after hours of efforts in front of your mirror, on the temples and at the back of the head. Everything is a reason good enough for your hair to bounce out of constrain and surround your head with a mop of flaming atrocity, be that wet weather, wind, nerves or passion. This hair seems to be in a constant state of rebellion and thrill! Even now, just a few minutes after the last pin was put in it, there is a small spring of copper near you left ear. You tuck it in, it jumps out and brings a friend. All you can do as sigh sadly again.

This is not a body to enthrall a Dwarf for certain. Clad in a heavy velvet dress it still looks as a twig. Even the layers, the drapes, the furs on the collar and the sleeves still do not gift you with any weight or presence. You are still the same skinny, bony bird, with a turn-up nose and the strange eyes. You look at them and again lament the bizzare shape. Slanted, narrow, outer corner upwards, neither brown nor green, strange yellow specks surrounding the pupil. A sheer disaster!

You unnecessarily smooth the dress on your skinny stomach. You should have eaten more in the last few weeks, with some additional flesh you would have looked so much better in this attire.

"Is my Queen agonizing over her presumably unattractive features again?" The King's voice is mirthful and mischievous. You look at his reflection in the mirror, and feel even worse. In his regal dark blue attire he is stunning. You look at your heavy white dress adorned with ermine fur, silver embroidery and diamonds, and bite your bottom lip. "I look ridiculous." He chuckles and shakes his head. "I gave up on attempting to convince you long time ago, my heart." "I feel like it is the dress that is marrying you today, my King, not I. Which is possibly for the best."

He guffaws. "Then I am not a very smart Dwarf, kurdu." He comes and embraces you from behind. The large arms slide around your waist and he nuzzles the back of your head. "The hair, my King!" You sound panicked. He kisses your nape, and you shiver. "Some of it is escaping without my intrusion, kurdu." You groan, and he smiles to you in the mirror.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life." His compliments are rare, mostly consisting of fevered murmurs during lovemaking, but they are honest and candid, and you feel fluttering in your chest. Cursed blush! "Every little thing," he kisses the naked flesh of your shoulder peeking from the collar, "is perfect." You take a deep breath and look him in the eyes. "Well, alright, I will marry you since you are such a sweet talk." He smirks and nips skin with his white teeth. "Though you are so full of flimflam, my noble King."


	3. Her Armour

**A/N: Just a companion piece to "Thorin's Armour" for gender equality purposes :)**

HER ARMOUR

The healer's robe is just a long, straight tunic, with a key-hole neckline, on her small body it reaches the floor, a simple cloth belt on the waist, narrow practical sleeves, no hanging or leg-of-mutton excessiveness, which would get in the way of work. The linen is simple, of fern green colour, and she might be the only female healer the colour compliments, her hair copper and skin pale except for the bright freckles on her nose and cheekbones. It no doubt frustrates others who serve with her, they are in a constant pursuit of embellishing the stodgy robe. Some wear complicated hairdos, some add earrings, some spend their allowance on shoes. Wren weaves her hair in a demure do, with one braid going around the back of her head, picking up the copper strands, with smaller curls always escaping and coiling on her nape and temples. She owns no jewelry, and her shoes are sturdy and comfortable.

Her wedding dress is a heavy layered velvet attire, in accordance with the latest Dwarven fashion, white and opulent, with ermine fur going around the neckline and sleeves, diamonds and exquisite embroidery covering it from a low neckline to the long train. She steps out of it and sheds the undertunic. She is to take a bath following the custom of preparing a bride's body to accept her husband for the first time. It seems rather preposterous considering that she has been carrying her now husband's son under her heart for the last six months. The roundness of her stomach is hardly noticeable, her term equal to that of four months of parturiency for a woman of Men. Filegethiel, and now lady Zundushinh, the Queen of Erebor, steps into the hot fragrant bath water, and the herbal essences envelop her body.

Delicate flowers of dog violets and primroses float around her, the water fused with lady's mantle and sweet woodruff essences. She closes her eyes, and breathes in the familiar aromas. She moves her slender hands in the water and remembers her Grandmother's unseeing eyes and her soft voice listing the innumerous herbs and their remedial qualities, she remembers the healers and midwives she has met in her path, she remembers Aldacar, her lover and her teacher, she thinks of the myriads and myriads of books in the Erebor library. The knowledge of her grandmother and years of studies and practice shield her, give her strength, protect and nurture her.

Her squire clasps the mithril breastplate on her and adjusts the lacing at the back. Her armour is forged into a flexible structure of multiple plates, capable of protecting her narrow body and allowing her mobility. Gorget covers her delicate long neck, rerebraces and gauntlets light, unlike the King she always wears a closed helmet as he insists her hair would be too easy to spot for an enemy. There are still many who seek to slay the Queen of Erebor.

The King is drawing some mysterious patterns on the skin of her naked back with the pulps of his fingers. He is supporting his weight on one elbow, on his side, stretched near the relaxed body of his wife, and he lowers his lips to the pale skin. It is radiant, smooth, and a slight blush rises all over her body from his caresses. He presses more kisses, each next one even more reverent and gentle than the previous, and she sighs. He traces the line of elegant shoulder blades, and murmurs, "Like an apple tree in bloom..." She turns and looks at him in surprise. "Pardon, my Lord?" "The colour, it is white but there is this pink tint..." He chuckles, "I am afraid eloquent compliments are not my forte, my Queen, as you no doubt have discovered over the years." She smiles to him, and he strokes her back, seemingly absorbed in the sensation of the smoothness and glowing softness. Perhaps his compliments are not that articulate, but actions speak better than words. He presses his cheek to the curve of her lower back and nuzzles her skin. It heats up responding to his closeness, and she is tingly and flushed all over her small body.

"The Gem of Erebor," the low deep voice of Gandalf the Grey greets her, and she dismounts her pony. She pushes the hood off her head and smiles. "Why all the titles between old friends, Mithrandil, the Grey Wanderer?" The Queen's eyes gleam with impish mirth. The wizard chuckles. "Which of your many names would you prefer then, my lady? Filegethiel? Zundushinh? My Queen though you are not mine? Khuzdul Bahinh? Lachwen Erebor?" She is laughing at the end of the list, "These are just sheaths and sheaths around me that I have accumulated over years, but what only matters is what lies in heart, my friend. So what would you say to calling me _mellon nin_?" _My friend _in Sindarin seems to please the wizard, and he cordially pats her hand lying on his looped arm. "Your wisdom knows no limit, mellon nin," the voice of the grey wizard turns mischievous for a second, "Which is what no doubt allows you to rule your Kingdom and rule your King." She smiles to him, and then in a gesture very unbecoming the Queen Under the Mountain she shrugs and shakes her curly head. "Perhaps it is all owed to the thick skin I have developed over years." The wizard chuckles and nods in agreement. "Indeed, my friend, that is the most valid of explanations."


End file.
